Reaping The Promise Poem by Dianne Feaver

Didn't I pass a lifetime once
up in the heather that courses the cliffs,
And didn't I know each trout in the brook
quietly waiting afloat with the promise?
Wasn't I near the sea edge watching
visible there by lantern or sun, kissing
the ones who returned or waited to mourn?
Didn't I live it real there, moving to what is done
close to the spin of the earth, my time passing?

Didn't I hunt with clever hounds
raised to the whistle kept close at hand
and stable the mares each spring found
fat with the promise and will again
work the fields, bent to rows,
my side by yours bred to the soil
we turned over and over to roots below
and in seasons of plenty turn over the toil
to the promise of sons and a natural end.

And didn't I fend the sorrows
that hung by the jamb or seeped in the cracks
Enduring, I clung to the promise shown
in the croupy child, the harvest patch.
I passed a lifetime long before.
Time marked a time, knew well my due,
and knowing the time for renewal had come
prepared me something more.
I know of this. It must be true,
for aren't I reaping that promise now
living this life with you?